Page 53 of Bossing My Holiday
When we stand to leave, handshakes are exchanged all around.
Outside the conference room, as the Smithfield team continues down the corridor, Tristan checks his watch. “That gives us the afternoon,” he comments, and there’s a hint of that other self now, the one from the car. The dirty, playful side of him.
“For what?” I ask, though I already know.
Braxton’s smile is slow and deliberate. “For Paris, of course.”
I look between them, these two men who’ve somehow slipped past my carefully constructed boundaries. This isn’t a relationship. I know that. There’s no way it could be anything beyond just sex. Just pleasure. Just a strange, unexpected configuration that shouldn’t work but somehow does. Even if I know it’ll disappear the moment Paris is behind us and we’re back in Boston.
Then I’ll go back to being myself.
Only it’ll be easier. No more debt, Nana is well taken care of, and I’ll be working for both Brax and Tristan. That last part is a bit of a fucker because I like them. A lot. But these sorts of relationships don’t exist out in the open in the real world, and these men—especially Tristan—are nothing if not public.
I won’t be a dirty secret. I want more from my life than that.
So I’ll enjoy this taboo arrangement for what it is while I have it and then move on and start living my life again.
“I suppose we should see some of the city,” I say, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to breathless.
Tristan’s hand brushes the small of my back as we walk toward the elevator. “Absolutely. It would be criminal to come to Paris and only see the inside of the hotel and a boardroom.”
17
WAVERLY
Outside Smithfield Pharmaceuticals, the December air carries a bite that reddens cheeks and provides a convenient excuse for standing closer than strictly necessary. The car pulls up in front, and we’re quickly ushered in, except, the moment the doors close and I sigh against the heat radiating out of the vents, it gets quiet.
Too quiet. The tense, memory-filled sort of quiet.
“I’m starving,” Brax announces. “I didn’t eat much this morning.”
“Me neither,” I admit. I was too freaking embarrassed after Tristan’s mother all but walked in on us naked with his dick still inside of me. That was a moment I’ll never forget.
“We’re not too far from the best café in the sixth arrondissement,” Tristan suggests. Without waiting on a response, he tells the driver to bring us there, and off we go. The glass partition stays down, and our hands stay to ourselves as within minutes we’re heading back into Paris.
“It’s so beautiful,” I murmur, lost in the endless city.
“Let’s get out and walk then,” Brax agrees. “Unless you’re not up for walking in the cold. It is about five degrees out.”
The question carries a hint of challenge, teasing me about how I didn’t take into account the conversion from Celsius to Fahrenheit when I was dressed for the North Pole in the airport.
I roll my eyes at him. “Har, har. Lead the way. My hot bosses bought me an extra warm coat. I should be fine.”
They both laugh as the car pulls over, and we exit into the stream of Parisians, businesspeople, and tourists that flow along the sidewalk.
Braxton falls into step beside me. “Billion-dollar deals in the morning and playing tourist in the afternoon. Is this how all international acquisitions go?”
“Only the ones without unexpected complications,” I quip.
Tristan guides us around a corner to a narrow street lined with shops. Striped awnings extend over the sidewalk, and beneath one of burgundy and cream, a collection of small round tables hosts a variety of patrons. A waiter in a long white apron nods at Tristan with recognition.
“Monsieur Ouest.” He shakes Tristan’s hand. “C’est un plaisir.”
“Une table pour trois, s'il vous plaît,George.”
“Bien sûr, monsieur.” George leads us to a corner table partially shielded from the street by an ornamental hedge in a brass planter.
“You’re known here?” I ask as we settle into the woven chairs. It shouldn’t surprise me. The Ouest family is famous, but he knows the waiter’s name.
